


The Thin Line

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-14
Updated: 1999-05-14
Packaged: 2018-11-10 23:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11136849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	The Thin Line

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

The Thin Line  
Hi All! This one may be just a touch weird, but I (mostly)  
dreamed it, okay? Take that as a disclaimer, btw. This story is  
rated PG for subject matter and W for weirdness. Also, all the  
characters used herein belong to Alliance. I'm just borrowing  
their toys and playing in their sand for a bit and promise to  
play nice. By the way, comments, criticism welcome at:  
jackeec@aol.com or

# THE THIN LINE

by Jackee C 

\---------------------- 

"You've gotta be kidding me," Raymond Vecchio exclaimed as he looked up at the store at which his friend had stopped. "You can't be serious about buying furniture from this place. It's just old junk!" 

Fraser paused before entering the store, "Some would consider the Riviera as 'old junk', Ray." 

"Yeah, well...that's different," Ray insisted. "The Riv is a classic..." 

"Ahhh," Fraser said, continuing on into the store. 

"Ahhh? Don't give me any ahhh's," Ray followed. 

"So what are we looking for? And where is everybody?" Ray asked, peering uneasily about the dim confines of the little antique shop. Suddenly he sneezed. "Benny, we gotta get outta here, it's messing with my allergies. I hate dark, dusty places." 

"I was informed that this particular shop has an Aviatre dresser," Fraser replied, handing Ray a handkerchief over his shoulder. 

Ray gave the stiff hanky a hard look, before he was overtaken by another sneeze. "What's an aviator dresser, anyway?" he asked crossly. 

"Aviatre," Fraser corrected. "It's a wonderful piece, Ray. They aren't worth much, monetarily, but I'd love to have one. My grandmother had one, but of course it was destroyed in the fire. Perhaps it's in the next room." 

Ray watched as his friend headed into an adjoining room, and then with a reluctant sigh, followed. When he rounded the corner, it was to find Fraser going through the drawers of a large, clunky looking dresser. "Is *that* it?" 

"Yes," Fraser answered as he moved to open another drawer. "Aviatre dresser's are made along the principle of a Chinese box puzzle. If you open the drawers in a certain sequence, at certain degrees a secret compartment opens." 

"So it's a dresser and it's a puzzle," Ray asked, incredulous. "Now I get it," he threw his hands into the air. "You drag me through this dank, dark, dingy little ...dungeon so you could play with a dresser?" Suddenly a small drawer in the middle of an ornate carving near a small mirror opened. 

"Ahhh, there it is," Fraser said in satisfaction. "It's nearly identical to my grandmother's. Except the riddle is still in the drawer..." 

"Riddle?" Ray asked, still stunned that there was actually a little drawer in the dresser. "You mean it's a dresser that's a toy that tells jokes?" 

Fraser considered Ray's question. "Well, not precisely, Ray. There is only ONE riddle." 

"Whatever," Ray brushed Fraser's answer aside. "What's the riddle?" 

Fraser reached a finger into the bottom of the drawer to try and pull out the tiny folded paper. "Ouch!" he pulled his finger back hurriedly. A small sliver of wood was stuck deeply into his forefinger. "It appears that I have splinter," Fraser explained, pulling the offending object from his finger and carefully laying it on the dresser before retrieving the slip of paper. 

He read it aloud: "The division of opposites, easily crossed." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ray wondered aloud. 

Fraser dropped the paper and backed away, suddenly. "Stay back," he whispered. 

Ray frowned. "What is it, Benny? What's wrong?" He reached out a hand to help his friend. 

Fraser stumbled back and fell over a chair. 

"Benny! What's wrong?" Ray ran to his friend's aide, growing more and more alarmed. 

Fraser just scooted away until his back was against the wall, hands out to ward off Ray's approach. "Back off!" he yelled. 

"Fine." Ray said, hands up in a gesture of peace. Forcing himself to be calm, he continued, "Benny, it's gonna be okay. I just need you to talk to me, tell me what's wrong." 

Fraser laid his head against the wall, drew his knees up to his chest and began to silently weep. 

"What's going on here?" a short chubby man entered the room. He looked from Fraser to Ray. "Is he friend of yours?" 

"Yeah, he's a friend of mine," Ray whispered as he moved closer to his friend. The shop owner stood silently by. When he was close enough, Ray placed a hand on Fraser's shoulder, in an offer of comfort. 

Suddenly, Fraser exploded into motion, knocking his friend to the floor, before he scrambled back to his corner. 

"I go call somebody!" the little man exclaimed, rushing from the room. 

"Benny," Ray said, staying well out of reach this time. "You've gotta get a hold of yourself or they're gonna come take you away on the paddy wagon. Think of Diefenbaker, your wolf. Who's gonna take care of him if you don't snap out of this." 

Fraser eyed Ray with suspicion and mistrust, unwilling to let him out of his sight. He held on tightly to the rail of a headboard that leaned against the wall. 

Ray eased himself into a nearby chair. The frightened, wild look in his friends eyes told him that any sudden move wasn't a good idea. So Ray just sat and began to speak softly to his friend. "You know, Benny, you're the best friend a guy could have, and I owe you a lot. You always stand by me, and I want you to know I'm gonna stand by you." 

The words seemed to calm him somewhat. The wild look was beginning to fade, when Ray heard the sound of the shopkeeper returning. "He's in here," the little man was saying. Ray saw all the fear and wildness come rushing back in full force. 

He turned to see two muscular looking men in white coats entering with a gurney. One of them held a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid. 

"Stand clear," he ordered Ray as he loaded the syringe. 

"Should you be givin' him that?" Ray asked. "You don't even know what's wrong with him." 

"It's safe," the paramedic assured him, squeezing a small spray from the tip of the needle. At a gesture to the other medic they closed in on Fraser. 

Ray turned his back on the sounds of Benny's struggles against the medics. When the sounds had died down he turned to see the men lifting Fraser's unconscious body unto the gurney. He followed them out to the ambulance. When he tried to climb into the back, one of the paramedics gently held him back. 

"Sorry," he said. "No can do, Buddy. Regulations." 

"Yeah? Try and stop me," Ray said, trying to move around the muscular medic. 

The medic held Ray back with little effort. "Listen, in cases like these it isn't advisable. He's obviously delusional and we need to keep him on as even a plane as possible. You could complicate things. We'd prefer if you followed." 

Ray thought about arguing the point further, but realized it wasn't helping Benny. With effort he relaxed and nodded. 

The medic gave Ray an understanding smile and climbed into the back of the ambulance. 

As Ray watched the ambulance doors swing shut a sense of unreality came over him. He barely felt his feet hitting the pavement as he ran for the Riv. He didn't remember unlocking the door or even getting behind the wheel, and it took a few seconds for him to realize that nothing happened when he turned the key in the ignition. He turned the key again in utter disbelief. A wide-eyed gaze at the instrument panel revealed that there was gas, and no warning lights. What could be wrong? 

With a heavy sense of dread, he focused out of the front windshield. The ambulance was two blocks down the road, lights off. As fast as his fingers would allow he popped the hood and ran around to see what might be wrong. 

Everything looked in place. And then he saw it; his battery connection was loose. Four steps to the trunk, two more back to the driver's side door to get the keys, and two more back to the trunk for the toolbox. In less than sixty seconds Ray had the battery tightened, hood closed, tool box on the seat beside him and the car started and on its way in the general direction the ambulance had taken. 

As he followed the route to the nearest hospital, siren blasting, his anxiety was fast changing into fear and a gnawing uncertainty. He called in to the precinct in an effort to patch into the ambulance service to find something...any information at all. Something about the entire situation didn't feel right. 

"Rodgers," Ray acknowledged the voice on the switch board. "Can you give me any information on a 911?" 

"Sure, Vecchio, whatcha need?" 

"I need a 911 call made about 10 minutes ago from Middelton Antiques about a delusional man." 

"Sure thing." There were several seconds of silence as Officer Rodgers checked her records. "Sorry, Ray, there is no 911 for a delusional man. Are you sure that was the complaint? We just got a 911, maybe five minutes ago, but it's no delusional, other than that nothing even remotely close." 

"What's your five minutes ago?" Ray asked. 

"Sniper." 

Ray banged a fist on the steering wheel. "What else you got?" 

"The usual grizzly lineup. A domestic, a gunshot wound, a stabbing, heart attack...wait a minute something's coming in right now. Ugh..." Rodgers' voice faded out... "Ray, sounds like an ambulance just *exploded* over on Merriman..." 

Ray didn't hear the rest of Rodgers' statement because he'd dropped the handset. He swung the Riv around the next corner and headed for Merriman, his heart in his throat. 

The scene wasn't a pretty one; pieces of debris could be seen strewn across the road. The once white front end of the ambulance was quickly being overcome by fire; the driver's compartment already having lost the battle, while the back end was obscured by thick black smoke. 

Through a haze of unreality, Ray could hear the sound of approaching sirens. Duty would have dictated his reporting that he was on the scene, but his only thought was to get to Benny. Nothing else mattered, not the voices calling his name, or the thick smoke that threatened to burn his lungs to cinders. Even the pain of the hot door handle only slowed him down. 

He drew back against the pain and pressed on forward, blinking against the fuzzy edges that threatened to overtake his perception. 

Suddenly he felt something grabbing at his arms. He wanted to fight, but he was weak. Too weak to resist. The rear doors began to recede and then nothing. 

Ray felt stifled. He couldn't breathe. His eyes flew open as he sat up with a start. Something crashed to the floor on his right. It took a few moments to realize that he was in what appeared to be an examination room, and he'd knocked over an IV. 

There was an oxygen mask covering his face. He reached up to pull it off and found that his right hand was wrapped in white bandages... hurt, too, come to think of it. In fact, everything hurt. His eyes burned, his throat was raw, and his head felt like it had been smashed repeatedly between two jackhammers. 

With a cough, he looked down to take stock of the rest of his body. He was still wearing the same slacks and shirt he'd worn to that antique shop with Frasier. Benny... 

As the days events began to slowly click into place, a duty nurse entered the room to see what the commotion had been. One glance at Ray's shocked expression and she gestured to someone outside of the door. After a few whispers, she entered and uprighted the IV and then left the room. 

"Hello, Ray," Lt. Welsh said carefully as he closed the door behind the nurse. 

"Where's Benny?" Ray asked in a small hoarse voice. 

"Ray..." Welsh began, then sighed and ran a tired hand over his face. He reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a familiar object and handed it to his shocked detective. 

Ray took it with his left hand and opened it. It was Benny's wallet. Inside was his RCMP Identification and several other pieces of I.D. The contents blurred. 

"We found this at the scene. There wasn't much left, but-- his identification holder was flame-proof." Another sigh, "He's gone, Ray." 

Ray's eyes remained focused on the wallet. He remained silent several seconds and began to laugh. "Yeah, just like Benny. He would have a fire proof wallet--probably had it specially treated. Yeah...just like him." 

"He was a good man," Welsh agreed. 

Ray looked up at the Lt. "The last thing I said to him was that I'd stand by him, that I'd be the kind of friend to him that he was to me." With a sniff, Ray pulled out the IV and threw his feet over the side of the bed. 

"Where're you going?" Welsh asked. "You shouldn't be leaving here, yet." 

"I'm going to go be a friend." Ray said and walked out of the hospital. 

Ray pulled himself slowly from the cab after it stopped at 221 West Racine St. He felt tired, tired and incredibly old; every muscle ached. But nothing approached the ache within. A strange sense over came him as he started up the stairs. He could feel Benny's presence. Somehow, he just *knew* that he would see his friend on the other side of that door. He took the steps two at a time and threw open the door at 3J. 

The apartment was dark and quiet, only Dief looked up from his position near a window. 

Undaunted, Ray ran from one room to the other. Empty. The anxious expression faded to utter disappointment. Disappointment turned to loss and hopelessness. He sank to the bed, elbows on knees and covered his face. 

Dief whined and moved toward the dejected human and rubbed against his knees. 

Ray looked down at the wolf. And the wolf looked at him. "It's just you and me now, Diefenbaker," he whispered. 

Birds were singing. Ray couldn't remember the last time he'd actually *listened* to the singing of birds. Today he focused all of his being on that bird song. He let it fill his mind. Long chirp. Long chirp. A strange song, indeed. It stopped and began again. 

"Aren't you going to answer that?" A voice asked. 

Ray's eyes flew open, and then immediately squinted against the bright sunlight streaming through the window. 

"Why?" he asked rolling into a sitting position. "It's obviously someone I don't want to talk to, right now. What are you doing here, anyway?" 

"I came to take care of the wolf." 

Ray froze. "Don't bother, that's my job from here out. It's what Benny would have wanted." In the ensuing silence, Ray moved toward the window. Outside people were going about their Thursday morning, walking, talking, eating, drinking...living. What right did life have to go on? 

"You don't have a corner on the market for despair, you know." 

Ray remained silent. 

"So, you're just gonna sit here in this apartment and wallow in self-pity? Come on, Detective, you can do better than that!" 

"But I didn't, did I?" Ray spoke softly, guilt and self-deprecation evident in his stance. 

"Ray, you can fight the fine fight, but you can't always win the war." 

"That sounds like something he would say," Ray almost chuckled. 

"Must be a Mountie thing. Cherish your memories, Ray; his light shone far too brightly to be allowed to completely extinguish. You have to go on living, and in a sense, he can live, too. The world will be a dark, lonely place if we ever lose sight of that." 

"Inspector..." Ray turned from the window. 

"I envy you," she went on past the catch in her throat. "I envy you the strength of your friendship and the multitude of your memories. I only have a few, and I plan to hold on to them for dear life. Because there is no other way I'm going to be able to get through this." 

Ray noticed for the first time, the rumpled state of the woman standing before him. The soft peach suit looked as if she'd slept in it. Her hair was tousled and her makeup all but gone. It was pure instinct that caused him to go to her. He didn't care that his silk shirt was wet from her tears or that his face was wet from his own... 

A soft song played against his consciousness. It was beautiful, drifting, peaceful. There was no pain in this place. Had he felt pain before? He couldn't remember. Before was only an echo that no longer mattered. The song played on. Touching, dancing against the edge of his consciousness, sweetly lulling his senses into a wonderful euphoria. 

A second level. The mists shifted. This time, he could smell. Flowers, soft, sweet, gently windblown flowers. And linen. He savored the smells, allowed them to wash over him and through him. It was so easy and wonderful and peaceful here, he didn't want to leave. 

He felt it. Something soft beneath his fingers. He hadn't though of moving before. The music blew across his face. He felt it ruffle through his hair. The music and the flowers and the wind all combined as a physical touch, gentle in its caressing. 

He opened his eyes. He could find nothing to focus against in the mists. Several fluffy white sheep suddenly appeared in his line of sight. He smiled. With the smile came the realization that his throat was dry. What did that matter in such a beautiful place as this? He opened his mouth as if to speak and to his dismay, the mists faded and the music stopped. 

The mists were replaced by a dark haired woman gazing loving down at him. And the music was replaced by her beautiful voice. 

A soft breeze from the nearby open window rippled softly through the dark curls. The smell of a new day mingled with her smell. Her face held a vague, yet painful familiarity. 

"Hello, Ben," she said. "Welcome home." 

A gentle breeze billowed through the wide curtains that were situated over the bed in the ensuing silence. He found something familiar in her eyes. He felt a feeling of history that he couldn't place. "Back?" he finally asked. 

"Yes." She spoke softly, intimately, her eyes never leaving his. "You've been sleeping a long time, and now you're back with me." 

He drew his eyes away from hers, and glanced around the room. The walls were decorated with flowered wallpaper and heavy oak furniture. The room looked homey, but it didn't *feel* like home. Not like she did. A feeling of loss suddenly sprang up in the back of his mind, something was missing. 

"Where's..." His voice trailed off and he pushed himself into a half sitting position. 

The woman drew away anxiously. "Where's...what?" Something in her gaze had changed. It confused him even more. 

Loss changed to outright worry, edged with panic. "I'm terribly sorry," he began. "You see, I've lost... something and...and I don't know what it is." 

"It's okay," the woman relaxed. One of her small hands touched his in comfort. "You've had another episode. It happened before when you skipped your medication. Speaking of which," She snapped open a bottle that sat on the night stand and dumped out a single yellow tablet. "You're due for another dose." 

He gazed hesitantly at the little pill in her hand. He couldn't say why, but this didn't *feel* right, either. 

"What's wrong, Ben?" she asked sitting on the side of the bed. "We've been through this before, you have to take this because of your chemical imbalance." 

His panic was growing. "I'm not aware of a chemical imbalance." There was an inner urging to get up and run away, but he fought it. "I don't even know where I am, or who you are."

"Ben, I promise you'll feel much better after you take 

this." Her voice was soft and calm. It's calmness seemed to go right through him, weakening his fears. All the while, her eyes beckoned him. 

` "Ben, you trust me," she whispered. He took the pill from her hand. 

"Good. Now swallow it." She was waiting with a glass of water from the night stand to wash it down. 

"There. Isn't that all better?" she asked with a triumphant smile. 

Dief cast a glance at the humans in the midst of his pacing. He didn't understand why his Mountie's boss and the detective were acting this way. Didn't they know that there was urgent work to be done? He'd give them a few more minutes, no longer. 

He was rewarded for his patience. The female mountie, who didn't often dress like a mountie, was leaving the apartment. It was time to state his case. 

"What is it, Diefenbaker?" Ray asked, turning thoughtfully away from the door. "You're hungry, right? Well, I woulda fed you by now, but I had trouble finding the Purina Wolf Chow." 

Dief barked again, ignoring Ray's comments and headed toward the bedroom. 

"No Diefenbaker, you won't find your master in there. He won't be coming back any more," Ray tried to explain, but the wolf wasn't looking. Ray sighed, Dief was obviously in denial. He wondered if there were such a thing as a wolf therapist. 

Halfway across the floor, Dief stopped, turned and barked again more loudly. 

Ray gave in and followed. 

"What?" he asked in confusion when the wolf stopped in front of Benny's wardrobe. "*I'm* not the mountie! And I have no intention of playing dress up." 

Dief barked again. 

"Take a closer look," Ray ran a hand across the top of his head. "See, no mountie here. Besides, I hate going through other peoples drawers. It just.." 

Dief stepped around the ranting human. Sometimes, you just had to take matters in your own paws. With a decisive motion, he clamped a drawer pull between his teeth and pulled. The drawer came out with a rush, its minimal contents spilling all over the floor. 

"Aww Diefenbaker!" Ray exclaimed, shaking his head. "Why'd you have to go and do that?" He didn't have the heart to truly berate the animal. Instead he stooped over to clean up the mess. Half a dozen pair of highly starched shorts littered the floor. Ray couldn't resist the urge to tap a pair against the wooden flooring to see if it would bend. It didn't. 

By the time he'd gotten the contents back into the drawer he was smiling in spite of himself. Starched shorts were so uniquely Fraser. The smile faded as the bottom drawer came into view. It was completely empty. Curious, he examined the top drawer and the closet. All of Fraser's clothes were gone, save his uniforms. 

"This makes no sense..." Ray stood in the center of the room, utterly confused. "Where are...?" Ray's eyes widened with sudden knowledge and a slow smile spread across his face. 

Dief gave Ray a long suffering look and snorted. The human had finally gotten the message. 

By the time Inspector Margaret Thatcher reported to the consulate, she'd gone home, showered and, she hoped, composed herself. She stopped to look at the conspicuously vacant post near the front door. For the briefest second she thought she saw him there. But she blinked, and he was gone. She moved on into the building. It was going to be a very long day. 

"A Jilliette Marshall is waiting to speak with you," her secretary directed her to the woman standing near a window in the outer office area. "She's the --" 

"RCMP Media Relations Expert," Thatcher filled in, dryly. "I know. Thank you." With her best diplomatic smile pasted across her face, she went to show the woman into her office. 

"Thank you, Inspector," the woman said once they were settled in the office. "I flew in this morning to help co- ordinate our efforts in Constable Fraser's memorial." The woman pulled a thick file folder from her brief case. "Even though this is truly a sad occasion, it thrusts the RCMP in the public eye once again. An international hero had fallen tragically in the line of duty and in his honor the memorial service will receive international coverage, live. Musical Ride has agreed to do an exhibition and the Prime Minister has tentatively agreed to say a few words via satellite. We do have a slot scheduled for you to say a few words, since you were his superior. The words you are to say will be give to you in printed form on the day of the memorial. We must rally all the support we can in advance. Our analysts believe that if we began a campaign now, the service should rate up there with Elv--" 

"Wait a minute." Thatcher held up a hand, overwhelmed at all the woman had told her, and feeling woefully unprepared to deal with this situation. "The American officials haven't released his name yet, pending the outcome of the investigation and notification of next of kin. How can you..." 

"Inspector," Jilliette interrupted politely. "As Constable Fraser's direct supervisor, your face will be seen by millions. An event like this could make your career. Not to mention the publicity for the RCMP." 

Feelings of inadequacy turned to fury. "Ms. Marshall, a man died! Surely that matters more than the publicity!" 

"As I said," the woman explained patiently, as if to a child. "Constable Fraser *was* a hero. It's important to be on top of these things. Believe me. It's my job to know." 

Thatcher glared at the woman across her desk. Before she could form the thoughts in her head into a tactful response, the intercom sounded. "Ma'am, pardon the interruption, but the Mayor's on line one." 

"Thank you." Thatcher snatched up the phone. "Good Morning, Sir... Excuse me, what did you say?...a parade?...just a minute, please." She turned toward the woman who sat across from her. 

"The Mayor wants to throw a parade in Constable Fraser's honor. How does the media relations department feel about that?" 

"Only if other mounties are in the parade. And mounted." 

Thatcher gave the woman a look, but went back to the phone and relayed the message. 

"He says that can be arranged, but wants to know how many?" Thatcher relayed back. 

"Tell him--" 

"Look, why don't you just take my phone. Take my office." Thatcher got up from behind her desk and stormed from the room to the sounds of the media relations woman chatting with the mayor. 

She stepped from her office to find her secretary trying to fend off the members of the press who'd appeared in from nowhere as best as she could tell. "Inspector Thatcher," a blonde woman spoke upon seeing her. "Is it true that Constable Fraser was killed in an explosion last evening?" 

Thatcher stood frozen in front of the camera for a moment before she responded. "I have no comment." 

"Yes, it's true," a voice spoke up from behind her. 

Meg turned to see Jilliette Marshall standing poised for the cameras. She couldn't watch, and so ducked into an office. Constable Fraser's office, she realized only after she'd closed the door. The room was darkened and still; there were no signs of life. She moved to switch on the lights and open the blinds, but stopped herself. Instead, she sank into his chair and buried her face in her hands. 

Ray was practically running when he entered the 27th Precinct. Elaine had been sitting staring dejectedly at her terminal, but at Ray's approach, her face crumbled. She rose to give Ray a hug, but was surprised when he grabbed her up and swung her around. 

"Ray! Ray, what are you doing?!" She exclaimed. 

"He's alive!" Ray announced triumphantly. 

"He is?" Elaine asked, shocked. "Are you sure?" Hope shined as brilliantly in her eyes as it did in Ray's. 

"Of course, I'm sure!" Ray cried. 

Other's gathered around upon hearing the news. Though some found his methods a bit unorthodox, Fraser'd had no enemies here. 

Lt. Welsh left off his battle for the danish that had gotten stuck in the snack machine to see what the ruckus was about. He was surprised to find a grinning, practically bouncing Detective Vecchio in the middle of a group of his officers. 

"What's going on, here?" he asked. 

Ray turned toward the Lt., and broke the happy news. 

"Yeah?" Welsh was skeptical. "Where is he?" 

Ray's smile faded a little, "Well, sir, I don't know for sure at the moment, but there is evid--" 

"Come with me, Vecchio," Welsh cut the Detective off and led him to his office. 

"Shut the door," he said, when they were inside. "Now, I can't have you spreading any unfounded rumors around this precinct, Detective. So, I need to hear your evidence, now, before this goes any further." 

"Well, Sir, all his clothes are missing." Ray said. 

"His *clothes* are missing? That's it?" Welsh asked, disbelieving. "Has it occurred to you that they might be out to the cleaners or they may have simply gotten stolen? This is Chicago, detective." 

"Yes, it had occurred to me, sir." Ray answered calmly. "But that isn't the case. Somebody kidnapped him, played the switcheroo and took his clothes along, too, for good measure." 

Welsh sighed. "Vecchio, I have a report here on my desk that says a man, about six feet tall dressed in jeans and carrying an RCMP identification bearing the name of Constable Benton Fraser, was burned to death in the back of that ambulance. Two other men of similar height and build died as well. Which story would you say has more veracity?" 

"Sir, I know he's alive, and I'm gonna find him." Ray spoke softly. 

Welsh considered his detective. He knew there was nothing he could do to keep him from looking for his friend, but he couldn't have him spreading false hope around the precinct, either. 

"Detective I'm ordering you to take a leave of absence, effective immediately. You're posing a threat to the well-being of this precinct by spreading unfounded rumors." 

"What?!" Ray exclaimed. "You can't be serious? Tell me you've at least got someone looking into the case." Ray cocked his head to one side, unable to believe that the Lt. was giving up so quickly. 

"Sarducci's on the case--" Welsh started. 

"Sarducci?!" Ray's eyes saucered. "But he's a glorified traffic--" 

"Vecchio," Welsh spoke quietly, his tone communicated the warning that his volume did not. "This is not a criminal case and falls into Sarducci's jurisdiction. Which doesn't concern you at this time, seeing as you're on a weeks leave." 

Ray gazed at the Lt. with an expression of stunned disbelief mingled with confusion. "But Sir," he tried again, more softly. 

"Ray, I understand how you feel," Welsh said tiredly. "I'm speaking to you as a friend when I tell you you have to let him go." 

"That's funny," Ray chuckled without humor. "Another friend told me to never let go. Funny how that works isn't it?" Ray turned and walked out of the Lt.'s office and out of the precinct. Of course he managed to walk past Sarducci's desk, even though it sat in a far corner of the room. 

A light tap at the door startled Inspector Thatcher awake. She gazed around the office, disoriented. "Yes, come in," she called automatically. 

Constable Turnbull poked his head into the room. "Sir, you have a personal call on line 17." 

"Thank you, Constable," she said as she picked up the phone. 

"He's alive," an urgent voice began before she got the chance to say hello. 

Ray pulled the Riv up to the alley entrance of the Consulate as he'd been directed. She'd told him to wait in the car. But after two minutes, Ray was eyeing the bell near the door marked: Service Entrance with an intensity that bordered on disgust. "Women, they're all the same," he inform the wolf. "Never on time." 

A moment later the door opened and the dark head of Inspector Thatcher popped out. Noting the Riv, she cast another glance over her shoulder and quietly pulled the door shut. 

"What's with all the cloak and dagger, if you don't mind my asking?" Ray greeted her. 

"Press," was Thatcher's one word answer. 

Ray threw her a look with a raised brow. He wasn't certain he wanted to know what she meant by that; things were complicated enough. He left it alone. 

"So what's this incredible evidence you have?" 

"All his clothes are missing." Ray answered smugly. 

"What?" Thatcher questioned in disbelief. "Did it ever occur to you that they--" 

"That they might be out to the laundry or stolen?" Ray cut in, confidently. "Yes. But I know Benny. He never does laundry on Wednesdays, it's always Monday. And besides no one sends *all* their clothes out to the laundry." 

"Okay, I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt here for a minute. No one takes *all* their clothes to the laundry. Do you have anything else?" 

"Well, thank you kindly," Ray responded with only mild sarcasm, as he pulled the Riv from the alley. "Of course I have something else. But that's where you come in." 

"If there's any chance that Constable Fraser is alive, I'm in. But what is it that you want me to do?" 

"I need you to open an investigation from your end. Or at least get a crime lab to Fraser's apartment. Whoever took his clothes has to have left some kind of physical evidence." Ray was on a roll. "I'm thinking whoever took his stuff had to do it while Willie was walking Diefenbaker, which is basically a thirty minute window--" 

"Detective, hold it," Thatcher held up a hand. "Aren't you the police?" 

"Well, yeah," Ray nodded sheepishly. "But, I've been put on a leave of absence. I won't have access to the anything that is discovered, at least not officially." 

"Surely you have friends who'll feed you information..." Thatcher insisted. 

"What? Are you trying to say you won't do this?" Ray asked, suspicious. "Don't tell me you're giving up on him too! All I need is a chance to find all the evidence. It's there, but noone's ever going to find it because no one will bother to look there." 

"No, Detective, I'm not saying that I won't help. I said if there was any chance--" Thatcher tried to make him understand her position. 

"Chance? Of course there is. It's more than a chance, it's reality!" Ray couldn't believe it. He'd thought the Dragon Lady would do anything she could, if only to be able to continue to torture the mountie in the future. Especially after that morning. He mentally amended the Dragon Lady to Inspector Thatcher. 

"Detective," Thatcher spoke warningly. "As I was saying, RCMP leadership has decided that Constable Fraser is dead and have already planned his memorial service. My hands are tied, I can't order an investigation." 

"Well, then, we'll just have to do it ourselves," Ray said determinedly. "Here. Read this so you can get up to speed." Ray retrieved a file folder from beneath his seat and handed it to the Inspector. 

"Detective you do realize that it's illegal for us to have this folder outside of the precinct," Thatcher said as she took it from his hand. 

"Don't tell me you're about to go all Canadian on me." 

"No. That's Fraser's thing. I just thought you should know that you have illegal possession of the *wrong* file. These are for missing bodies." She shoved the file back beneath the chair. 

Ben felt fuzzy around the edges, but he managed to stand with relative ease. He'd found jeans and a shirt laying across the foot of the bed. His socks and shoes were tucked under the edge. As he pulled on the shirt, something on the mirrored vanity caught his eye. It was a man's billfold. It had to be his, why else would it be there? There couldn't be any harm to taking a look inside. 

There was an Oregon driver's license inside with a picture of man he recognized as himself. The name beneath the picture was Benjamin P. Gross, born June 24, 1954. There was nearly a hundred dollars in cash and a small picture of he and the dark-haired woman. He still didn't know her name. He'd fallen asleep before he'd had a chance to ask her again. His name was obviously Benjamin Gross. 

The photo was a grainy black and white and obviously candid; neither of them were smiling. If he were to guess, he'd say they both looked miserable, as if they were parting. He removed the photo from the wallet and flipped it. There was a date printed on the paper by the processing company. It read: 02/96 JFAP. 

He slipped the wallet into a hip pocket and thoughtfully began to button his shirt. What was he going to do, next? Learning the woman's name was first on his list. And then he'd have to find out what had happened to him. Again the feeling of loss washed over him, but he found it easier to push aside this time. 

With a sharp motion he turned to the mirror to straighten his shirt. A flash of gold in the mirror stopped him in his tracks. A thin gold band resided on the fourth finger of his left hand. He was married. 

He closed his eyes. "Oh dear." 

"I still can't believe you keep all this stuff in your apartment," Ray remarked again as he watched Thatcher lug a heavy black bag up to Fraser's apartment. He'd would've carried it for her, but his right hand was still bandaged and she'd threatened to hurt his other hand if he touched her 'tools'. 

"Well, when I was girl, instead of doing my dolls' hair, I finger printed them." Thatcher responded. 

"Let me guess, You watched all the girl crime-fighter shows like Cagney and Lacey and Police Woman." 

"Well actually I sorta liked Hawaii 5-0. My favorite line was 'book'em Dan-o'. I think I must've had a crush on Jack Lord." 

"Who woulda thought," Ray murmured under his breath. 

"What was that?" Thatcher asked. 

"Nothing," Ray responded, at least holding the apartment door open for her. 

1 hour later 

"So, what do we have?" Ray asked, taking inventory of the small pile of plastic bags in the middle of the kitchen table. 

Thatcher looked a bit perturbed as she dumped the last bag on the table. "This is the last thing I found," she said, tossing another bag on the pile. "I found it near the bed." 

Ray squinted to get a look at the bags' contents. "Are you sure that isn't yours?" he asked suggestively, seeing that it was a dark hair. 

Thatcher's gaze hardened. "Look again, detective. My hair isn't that long or that curly." 

Ray sat up straighter at her words. He snatched the bag from the pile and drew out the piece of hair the Inspector had so carefully placed in it." 

"Hey you're damaging the evidence!" she objected. 

Ray's expression darkened in fury as the long strand came into view. He knew only one person with hair like that who might wish Benny ill-will. Who would do anything to possess him. 

"Victoria," he whispered malevolently. 

"Victoria?" Thatcher's ears perked up. Why did that name sound familiar? 

"Yeah, she's the reason Frasier got shot right before you got here," Ray replied, shoving the hair back into the baggie. 

Thatcher considered that for a moment. "There are lots of things that aren't in reports, detective. Is there something I should know?" 

"Yeah, you bet there's something you should know. This woman, she'll do anything she can to make his life miserable. She thinks she owns him. And he thinks she loves him." 

Thatcher's eyes dropped. "Even now, after all this time?" she asked. "Would he still go along with her in a plot such as this, so he could be with her?" It was a reasonable question. Any investigator would have asked it. 

"No!" Ray exploded. "Frasier once told me that there are two horrors, living without honor and dying senselessly. Don't you see, going with her would be without honor." 

"But according to the report, it could be constued as if he *were* leaving with her at that train station," Thatcher had to say that. She had to be sure. 

Ray sighed and looked away. "Well, maybe in his own way he felt that he was protecting her. Dying an honorable death to save her life." Ray's voice was very low. This wasn't something he wanted to talk about. 

"Look, we're wasting time. If Victoria has him we have to find him, now!" 

"Well where do you suggest we look?" Thatcher asked. Ben was nothing if not an honorable man. 

"I got a hunch about this flyer," Ray said holding up a yellow paper with an advertisement near the bottom for an Aviatre dresser. 

"I'm listening," Thatcher said, following him out the door, Dief following along behind. 

"Notice that there weren't any of these along the street or scattered elsewhere in the building. Why do you suppose that was?" Ray felt that Frasier must surely have been rubbing off on him. 

Thatcher nodded, understanding. "Because it was meant for Fraser only, to lure him to that Antique shop." 

"Bingo." Ray answered. "Now, I've never heard of an Aviatre dresser. You?" 

"Well, yeah," Thatcher nodded. 

"Okay," Ray sighed. "Maybe it's a Canadian thing! But in any case, I say we check out that Antique shop." 

"I've been thinking," Ray said as he deftly maneuvered through the early afternoon traffic toward the Antique shop. "Somebody burned in that ambulance. No one's gonna believe us unless we have conclusive evidence that it wasn't Benny." 

Thatcher's brow furrowed and she paused in thought. "How many people were in that ambulance, detective?" 

"Three, why?" 

Thatcher's eyes were focused on the floor of the Riv. Some of the papers had slid out of the file and from beneath the seat. "Uh, would you say Fraser's six feet tall, 180 pounds or so?" 

"Yeah," Ray shrugged. "What's this about?" 

"...and the EMT's? What'd they look like?" Thatcher continued ignoring Ray's questions as she pondered something. 

"Same height, but pretty muscular. Not an ounce under 210. Both of them had dark hair. Enough with the twenty questions are you gonna let me in on the big secret or not?" Ray was beginning to feel put off. 

Thatcher shrugged, "It's seems such a coincidence that three bodies matching that description were stolen from the morgue at Mercy Hospital yesterday morning." 

"Aah, there you are," the dark-haired woman smiled as she entered the room with a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. "It appears I timed lunch correctly. Since you're up, would you like to eat downstairs?" 

"Yes, thank you," Benjamin answered politely and followed her back down the stairs. 

"This is a lovely home," he said as he took in the pictures of flowers and birds along the walls. "Have we lived here long?" Though he looked around the room, his kept coming back to the bridal set she wore on her left hand. 

The woman smiled a secret smile, as she went about setting the table. "No, Ben," she admonished. "I see you still don't remember, huh? We came to this house a week ago for an anniversary retreat. Ten glorious years." 

"You don't seem terribly upset that I've forgotten our anniversary, " Ben noted. "When were we married, exactly anyway, um...dear?" He smiled. 

The woman eyed him with a thoughtful smile. But then her eyes glazed as she relived a memory. "We were married in the middle of the worst snow storm you ever saw. March 2, 1986 at high noon. We were forever united that day, Ben. We were always meant to be together, you know that don't you?" 

"Actually, I don't really know very much," Ben answered, softly. "And I apologize for not remembering our anniversary." 

"It's okay," she assured him. "We've been through setbacks before. All that matters to me is that you're here. As long as I have you, everything will be just fine. I love you, you know." 

Ben eyed her uncomfortably. "I-I don't know what to call you," he said. 

"Toria. I go by Toria." 

Ray pulled the Riv into an alley half a block from the Antique shop. "All right, you take the front and act like a customer." Ray ordered as he checked his weapon. "I'll come in the back way." 

"If we're right about this flyer only being sent to Fraser, that should get a rise out of him." Thatcher commented from her side of the vehicle. 

"Ready?" Ray asked. 

"Yeah, ready." 

"This is delicious," Ben said after he'd chewed his first mouthful of the sandwich Toria had made. 

"It's your favorite," she said, her eyes shining. 

Ben watched the sunlight that shone through the huge bay 

window play across her features. "It looks warm for March," he commented. 

"Looks can be deceiving." 

Ben's brows went up a fraction. "I found a picture in my wallet. It's of the two of us at a much younger age. We both look very unhappy. Do you know when it was taken?" 

"Let's see," she thought as she munched on her sandwich. "We had to be away from one another for awhile as I remember. I had to do some work for the gov't. One of our friends snapped that and gave it to us. It wasn't very long after we were married in fact." 

"Do you remember that friend's name?" Ben asked. 

"Benjamin!" Toria spoke with a slight sharpness. "Is this twenty questions?" She softened it with an affectionate look. 

Ben shrugged. "I was...curious." 

"Well, of course I don't remember. It was so long ago." 

"I must say thank you for preparing such a wonderful meal," Ben announced suddenly. "It's only fair that I clean the dishes. And no, I won't take no for an answer," he admonished her when she was about to argue. 

Toria watched him collect the dishes and put them in the sink. She watched his movements as he expertly ran the dishwater. He was a beautif-- She was startled by a knock at the back door. 

Her shocked gaze flew to the picture window. 

A pudgy gentleman, with curly hair sticking out from the sides of his cap waved and held up a basket of yellow eggs. 

Toria's shock faded to irritation. "No, we don't want any," she called through the window. She'd thought this place was isolated enough for them not be disturbed for at least a couple of weeks. 

The pudgy man's smile drooped a little. "It's a gift!" he insisted, through the window. 

Toria sighed. Perhaps if she just took his little gift, he go away quicker. She unlocked the door, opened the screen and reached out for the basket. "Thank you," she said and moved to close the door. 

Ben had come up behind her to see what was going on. He wondered about her curious behavior toward a complete stranger bearing eggs. 

"Do I know you," the egg man asked him suddenly. 

Ben blinked at the sudden change of events. He cast a look toward Toria for confirmation. "No, I don't think so," he said. 

"It's me Buxley! Remember I tried to sue you and Canada? You are ...um...Fraser right? Bentley, Bradley or something like that Fraser." 

Ben's frown deepened as he examined this new information. 

"Excuse me, but my husband has been very ill, and can't have this type of--" 

"You're married?" Bucksley asked, surprised. "Ain't that the darnedest thing. I had you pegged with that..." Buxley trailed off as he realized what he was saying. "Oh, um, I just wanted to bring you some eggs to welcome you to the neighborhood. I know it isn't much but, welcome." With that he hustled back to his truck. 

"I'm terribly sorry about that Ben," Toria apologized. "I know how things are after your episodes." 

Ben wasn't listening. He was staring down at his bare ring finger. 

"What's wrong, Ben?" Toria asked, a sliver of unease running through her. 

"Benton..." he corrected absently. 

"What are you talking about?" Victoria asked, fear now edging her voice. 

"I remembered my name," he told her, his eyes boring into hers. "And I'm not married to you." 

"Ben!" she exclaimed, eyes wide with unshed tears. 

"There's no mark, Toria. I took off the ring to wash dishes. It's only now dawned on my what was wrong. If I were to have worn a ring on the same finger for ten years, the skin beneath would be different. And that picture, it was dated February 1996. You had that made didn't you? Why did you that, Toria?" Ben's face was filled with confusion and disillusionment. He'd been hoping that the little things he'd discovered wouldn't' add up to this. 

"Oh, Ben," Toria closed her eyes and the tears spilled over. 

Inspector Thatcher approached the front entrance of the Antique shop just as a burly gentlemen was moving the sign to closed. She banged on the door. "Hey, let me in!" she called. 

The man turned to unlock the door. With one hand he grabbed her and drug her into the darkened shop. 

Thatcher was not to be manhandled. She immediately dropped as if in a feint, pulling the big man off balance. He stumbled and came tumbling in her direction. She kneed him in the groin on his way down. "That's because you caught me on a really bad day!" 

She tied him with some twine from a nearby table and tapped his mouth with packing tape. Then she headed on toward the back of the shop. She could hear voices speaking. She didn't recognize either of them. Where was Ray? 

Meanwhile. Ray crept along the wall near the back entrance of the building. The shopkeeper was begging someone for mercy. 

"No, no hurt me. I do what you ask. You no fair!" 

"Fair," the other man laughed. "This is fair. Survival of the 

fittest. I can't have anyone around who might remember my face. See, my wife's gonna cash a nice fat insurance check down in the Cayman Islands here soon and prefer to meet her there without worry of any one coming looking for me. So, sorry buddy. It's you or me." 

Ray wriggled his fingers on his gun as he prepared to step around the corner. 

"Freeze police!" Ray yelled as he threw his body around the corner, gun up and ready. 

The man that Ray recognized as one of the ambulance drivers looked up in stunned amazement. It took a seconds hesitation before he aimed at Ray and pulled the trigger. Ray was much faster, the shot that Ray's police issue lodged in the man's arm, caused his shot to go wide, shattering a giant-sized lava lamp. 

Inspector!" Ray called as he began to cuff the man and read him his rights. 

"All ready on it!" Thatcher called from the phone she'd found on a wall in a back room. "Yes, could I speak with Lt. Welsh, please?" 

Ray and Thatcher stood in the back room dejectedly after a fruitless interrogation of the shop owner. 

"At least now everyone's looking for him," Thatcher said. "His face is gonna be pasted across every television screen in the greater Chicago area. Not to mention the wonders of cable television." 

"Yeah," Ray agreed. "But we don't even have a clue, as things stand." 

"Is this the Aviatre?" Thatcher asked, curious. 

"Yeah, looks like they even left the compartment open," he commented after a cursory glance. 

"Was the riddle there?" 

"Yeah, never did figure it out, though." 

"What was it?" 

"A dividing of opposites, easily crossed," Ray recited. 

Thatcher slumped. "That's too easy," she complained. 

"Too easy?!" Ray exclaimed. "Did I not just say--oh, never mind, it's probably a Canadian thing." Ray allowed a few seconds of silence pass. "So, are you gonna tell me or what?" 

"It's a thin line, detective." 

"Oh. I think I get it. Like between love and hate, war and piece, genius and insanity..." 

"I think you've got it, detective." 

Ray's phone chirped. "Yeah, Vecchio," he answered. "Okay, Elaine, put it through." 

"You can't ever leave me," Toria cried. "We're meant to be together, we love each other. I know you can feel it, too." 

"I do feel something," Ben admitted. "I feel that I know you, but I--it eludes me just how. Your love shines so brightly in your eyes, Toria and I feel that I would be a fool for jeopardizing such a thing. But, the quest for the truth is the highest honor. If our love is as you say, then it can weather the storm of the truth." 

"Are you saying that you'll go with me once you know the truth?" Toria asked, resigned. "If you find that you still love me?" 

"If I can, I will," Ben answered. 

"Always with a condition." Toria noted, moving toward the window. She wrapped her arms about herself in a gesture of self comfort. Softly she began reciting the poem she'd recited so long ago, in a cold, cold place. The place that had been melted by this man. She turned so he could see his face when the memories returned. 

Ben's eyes widened in shock at the words that would remain forever burned across his subconscious. First a trickle. That time in the snow, and the things that followed. His reason for betraying her, her name. 

"Victoria," he whispered. The memories rushed on ever faster, pouring over him. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed at the tide of raw emotions that he'd again have to learn to live with. The vast ocean of memories was suffocating him. 

He opened his eyes to find that she was standing before him, only a hands breadth away. "Why?" he asked. 

"Because, to make you mine, I had to take everything else." 

"If I remember you tried that before." 

"Yes, and you gave so willingly. Will you go with me, now? I know you still love me." 

"Victoria..." he trailed off. He couldn't tell her the words she wanted to hear. The wounds of her treachery would not allow him to trust her again. 

Ben watched the woman before him change. Her countenance changed from that of a loving wife to someone else. Someone who was angry and vengeful with eyes full of hate. He was shocked by the change. 

"We will be together, Ben!" She ground out bitterly. "One way or another!" 

Ben heard the soft 'snict' of the switchblade as it was opened. He also heard another sound in the back ground. A helicopter. If he could just hold her off until they arrived... 

He grabbed her right arm to try and wrest the knife from her grasp. He hadn't expected the needle in her left. She plunged it deeply into his side. The syringe's contents went to work almost immediately. His responses were beginning to slow. His knees went out from under him. 

"Don't you see, Ben. It's better this way. We can be together forever, now." Victoria's smile was maniacal. 

She took one of his now limp arms into her hand. "This'll just sting a bit," she warned with a smile. She slid the knife into his wrist. "One for you," she said. "Now, one for me." She cut one of her own wrists, barely flinching. 

Then with a heavy sighed, she continued, holding the cut wrist close to herself. "Now isn't that better?" She reached for his other arm. 

"No, Victoria," Ben gasped out. "You can't do this!" 

The sound of heavy footsteps could be heard in the house, now. "Ray!" Ben tried to call out. "Help her, Ray!" 

Victoria paused in what she was doing to listen to what she'd missed in her deranged state. With a cry of frustration at being foiled again, she drew back the knife and viciously stabbed downward. 

Ray came around the corner just as she drew back the knife. His bullet went through her shoulder cleanly, knocking her away from Fraser. 

While the other officers took care of Victoria, Ray ran to Fraser's side. Thatcher settled on his other side, trying to stop the massive blood loss. 

"Ray," Fraser whispered softly. "I saw her change. . . " 

Ray looked down at his best friend and understood. "I know, Benny. It's a thin line." 

**The Thin Line -- EPILOGUE**

\--------------------------------------- 

"Thanks, Joe." Ray said to the officer outside the door of room 917. 

"Sure, no problem, Vecchio," Joe grunted with a wave. "And I'll be sure not to let any Canadians in," he added to Ray's back. 

Ray didn't turn around, but merely threw a hand in the air to acknowledge Joe's words. 

When he reached the elevator, he leaned against the metal walls with a heavy sigh. That had been harder than he'd thought, and not for any of the reasons that he'd expected. The soft ping alerted him to the fact that the doors would be opening soon. He pulled himself into a standing position and nodded at the two nurses who entered, before himself exiting on the third floor. 

Room 302 was around a corner and at the end of a hall. Ray found himself picking up his pace as he drew closer to door. By the time his brain acknowledged the fact that voices were coming from *inside* the room, he'd already pushed the door open. 

Flowers sat on every available surface along with cards and pink message slips. The room almost rivaled the flower shop at the mall. And among all the foliage lay Constable Fraser, if it were possible, at attention while simultaneously prone in bed. Inspector Thatcher stood over him, exuding her usual air of authority. 

"Oops. Excuse me, I didn't know you were here, Inspector. I'll come back later." 

"It's quite all right, detective," Thatcher softened and actually almost smiled in Ray's direction. "I was just about to go talk to the doctor, anyway." She threw a last meaningful look in Fraser's direction and left the room. 

Ray returned her smile and held the door open for her. 

"Hiya, Benny! How ya feeling?" Ray asked with a little too much cheer. 

"I'm fine, Ray," Fraser replied with a distracted look. "Have you and Inspector Thatcher become...friends?" 

"Aah, well, she ain't so bad once you get to know her a little," Ray answered, pretending to scratch his jaw to hide the smile that threatened at Fraser's frown. 

"What happened to your hand?" Fraser asked at seeing the band the circled Ray's palm. 

Ray shrugged. "It's nothing? Have the doctors spoke to you yet?" 

"No. Were they able to determine what was in the syringe?" Fraser let Ray's lack of an answer slide. He obviously wasn't ready to talk about it. 

"Yeah," Ray pulled up a chair and sat. "That was just your basic tranquilizer. But, do you remember that splinter you got after you opened that secret drawer in that old dresser?" 

Fraser nodded. "Yes." 

"Well, it seems someone took the liberty of tipping it with some experimental hormonal drug called," Ray pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. "...Pyrmaniz-something or other." 

"Pyrmanizitoclin-A." Fraser inserted with an understanding nod. 

Ray gave him a dubious look. "How could you possibly know that? The M.E.--" 

"Ray, I read it *through* the paper," Fraser consoled. 

"So you've never heard of it before?" Ray asked. 

"No, Ray." 

"Okay. This P. stuff produces an immediate paranoid reaction in people who don't have this funky chemical imbalance. In other words, it made you nutso, so that the paid off shop keeper could call the bogus ambulance drivers. These bogus drivers were, in fact, *real* drivers who, oh just by the way, were under suspicion of a little on the side dealing. They stole three bodies from the morgue and planted them in the ambulance, one with your wallet, and set it on fire. They were gonna take the insurance money and leave the country, while you were delivered to you-know-who." 

Fraser nodded, silently taking in the scheme Ray'd laid out before him, a solem look coming over his face. 

Before he opened his mouth, Ray knew the question he was going to ask. And he wanted to postpone answering it, but he knew if he didn't tell him, Benny'd just find out on his own. 

"How is she, Ray?" 

Ray eyes settled across the room on a particularly large flower arrangement, but he wasn't seeing it. What he was seeing was the barren little room that *she'd* occupied, no flowers, no cards and no visitors, save for guards and those who would prosecute or evaluate or put her away. Worst of all was the hope he'd seen in the eyes that didn't quite look at him, but glanced beyond his shoulder as if seeing someone else. 

"Ray," Fraser prodded. 

"She's not the woman she used to be, Benny." Ray answered finally. 

Fraser held his breath. "What exactly does that mean, Ray?" 

Ray shrugged and shook his head. "Physically, she's gonna be fine. But mentally, she's slipped over the edge." Ray kept his eyes across the room, not looking at his friend. He didn't want him to know that she'd thought he and every other man that entered her room was Ben. Or that she asked if he'd come to take her home so that they could be together again. He just didn't 

want him to know. 

He heard Benny let out his breath. "Thanks, Ray, for telling me." 

"Sure, Benny," Ray patted his shoulder as he stood up. "Look," he began. "I gotta get back to the station. I'll be back after work, okay?" 

Fraser gave him a small smile and nodded. 

Downstairs on the first floor, Ray entered the florist shop. The harassed-looking attendant all but glared as he entered. Ray felt sure he knew where most of the flowers in Benny's room had come from. 

"What can I do for you?" the attendant asked with acidic cheer. 

"I'd like to have some flowers delivered?" Ray answered her with a polite smile. 

"All we got left is yellow roses," the woman offered. "Plus, could be awhile, our delivery boy has a couple dozen to deliver as it is." 

"Yellow roses'll be fine, and as long as you deliver today it'll be okay, too." Ray answered. 

The clerks brows went up a little. "What room number and message?" 

"No message, and room 917." 

......done. 

The End. 

* * *


End file.
